


Through the Eluvian: Dragon Age Stories

by HIMluv



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Coping, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Ghostbusters AU, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Loss, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-31 00:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12664863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HIMluv/pseuds/HIMluv
Summary: A collection of Dragon Age short stories, featuring a slew of pairings and OCs.





	1. Clever Witch

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This started as prompt fills for DAHalloween 2017, but I figure I'm likely to write more of these, and need a place to put them. Please enjoy!

Marian Hawke lay panting in the dim, flickering light of her bedroom. Fenris lay behind her, his own breathing only just settling back to something to like to normal as his fingertips traced along her sensitive skin. She hummed as she watched the flames undulate in the hearth, the movement hypnotizing her just as sure as his hands did.  
  
Fenris bent his lips down to her ear. “We need to talk about your daughter.”  
  
Hawke sighed. Fenris only ever referred to their child as ‘her daughter’ when the girl had done something he disapproved of; ninety-nine percent of the time that meant she’d done something magical.  
  
“What did she set on fire this time?” She rolled over to face him just in time to witness the small smile on his lips before he hid it away.  
  
“She’s taken to freezing things now,” he growled. “Bodahn nearly broke his neck when he stepped on a patch of ice on the stairs.” He shook his head, silver hair falling over his face. “He was lucky I was there.”  
  
She ran a hand up his arm, trying to soothe him. “I’ll sit her down tomorrow,” she promised.  
  
His green eyes held her gaze, and the disquiet in them stilled her hand. “She’s reckless,” he said.  
  
“Well, she does take after her mother,” Hawke quipped.  
  
“Marian,” Fenris said. His tone was unyielding, and something cold slithered up Hawke’s spine at the sound. “She’s dangerous.”  
  
She scoffed. “She’s five years old, Fenris.”  
  
He ignored her comment. “You’re busy helping Varric run the city and I am not equipped to teach her.” He sighed. “I think it’s time we considered-”  
  
“No!” Hawke rolled away from him, sliding into her red silk robe as she stood from the bed. “Absolutely not.”  
  
“It’s not like it was before,” Fenris continued. He pushed up onto one elbow to watch her pace. “Divine Victoria has made a lot of changes.”  
  
He had a point. The Circles were much more like boarding schools than the prisons they were before. But Leliana’s changes were far from unopposed or popular. And besides, Hawke had mastered her abilities outside of the Circles, her daughter could too.  
  
Hawke chewed her lip. “I could get Merrill to help,” she said.  
  
Fenris snorted. “Forgive me if I refuse to let a known blood mage instruct my child in the ways of magic.”  
  
She nodded; the suggestion had been a long shot at best. She sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. “I’ll just have to tell Varric that I need to spend more time at home. He’ll understand.”  
  
He watched her carefully, his eyes weighing her up, judging the truth of her words. “And you will?”  
  
She couldn’t quite read his expression in the faint, tremulous light, but the doubt in his voice stabbed at her. “Of course,” she said. “I love Kirkwall and Varric needs me, but not as much as my family.” She meant it, and she hoped he could sense that.  
  
He lay watching her for a moment longer, and then he pat the mattress. “Come back to bed, Hawke.”  
  
She smiled and hurried back to him, shrugging out of her robe. She shivered at the chill air on her skin, but Fenris pulled the covers over them as she snuggled into his chest. They lay comfortable and quiet in each other’s arms until a thought occurred to Hawke.  
  
“Fenris?”  
  
He grunted, his eyes still closed.  
  
“You were never going to send her to a Circle, were you?” she looked up at him, but he didn’t move. “You just wanted me to agree to stay home more.”  
  
He didn’t say a word, his body unnaturally still, until his arm tightened around her and his lips curled into a smirk.  
  
“My clever witch.”


	2. From the Ashes

The Herald’s Rest was unusually quiet. There were no good-natured but raucous disputes, no cheers of a job well done, and even Maryden’s lute was particularly melancholy. What conversations were had were subdued, but The Iron Bull didn’t miss the furtive glances and whispered.  
  
After all, it was his job to hear everything. He was Ben-Hassrath.  
  
His good eye darted to the empty chair in the corner and then away again. He gulped at the tankard he’d been nursing, but the ale tasted flat and almost sour on his tongue.  
  
No one approached the Qunari as he sat and drank in painful solitude. Even Sera, usually so flippant and desperately uncaring, couldn’t bring herself to face him. Varric had tried, but the dwarf valued friendship above all else; he had no words for someone like Bull.  
  
Maryden’s voice drifted to him as she started another song, her voice low and wavering.  
  
“He doesn’t blame you,” a willowy voice from beside him. Bull didn’t need to look to know that Cole had finally come to speak with him.  
  
“Leave me, Demon,” he growled, but there was no heat in it. He simply didn’t have the energy for it.  
  
“You saved his life,” the spirit continued, seemingly unfazed by The Iron Bull’s name calling. “He always intended to repay the debt.”  
  
“I lost an eye,” Bull spat. “Krem lost his life. They all did.”  
  
“You gave them a new life,” Cole said. “Rescued, remembered, redeemed. You showed them another way and gave them what you never had.”  
  
“And what’s that?” He wouldn’t be frightened of the wisp of a boy speaking in riddles. He was The Iron Bull, Hissrad, Ben-Hassrath, Qunari. He was not afraid.  
  
“Family,” the spirit said, the word linger on his lips like it was something he could taste. He watched the Qunari for a moment longer and then vanished out of sight.  
  
Bull looked around the tavern, but no on appeared to have witnessed his interaction with the ghostly child. No one looked at him, no one checked on him. There were no laughs at jokes he’d told a dozen times before, no knowing glances from the corner when they both noticed something amusing. Bull leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. The tankard of ale stood forgotten on the floorboards beside his boots.  
  
For the first time in a long time, since he came South, The Iron Bull was completely and utterly alone.  
  
And, as he quietly wept in the eerie calm of the tavern, he knew that he had never felt more afraid.


	3. In Hushed Whispers

The ominous drip, drip of water echoed through the dungeon. It was dark, but Revan’ilan didn’t need light to know he stood in water up to his knees. He’d been in the main hall of Redcliffe castle, he remembered that much. Their plan to ambush the Tevinter Magister had gone perfectly until Alexius had pulled a pendant from his robes. There had been a swell of light and a surge of magic that even Revan could feel, and then Dorian had…  
  
“Dorian!” Revan waded through the water, frantic to find the mage. “Dorian?”  
  
In the nearly non-existent light a human would be blind, but the elf could make out vague shadows and shapes. The Altus was not in the dungeon. Revan unsheathed his twin daggers and hurried up the stairs. The halls and chambers were empty, even the cells where he remembered Solas, Cassandra, and Vivienne had been were barren. Only the sinister glow of red lyrium was as he remembered, dousing the castle in an evil, blood-tinged light.  
  
“This isn’t right,” Revan mumured. “This isn’t how it happened.”  
  
Screams to his right startled him into a sprint. He threw open the door to find Leliana dangling from her wrists. Her torturer turned, surprised at the elf’s sudden appearance, and she caught the man with her legs. She snapped his neck without hesitation. Or remorse.  
  
Revan hurried to help her down.  
  
“I knew Pavus was lying,” she spat.  
  
He froze, his blood suddenly ice in his veins.  
  
“I knew you could not be dead.”  
  
“Something is very wrong here,” he said, but banished the needling fears that threatened to overwhelm him.  
  
Leliana retrieved her bow and quiver and followed him through the castle until they reached the giant doors of the great hall. They encountered no one as they as they hurried on their way, but the red lyrium became more and more prevalent.  
  
With a deep breath Revan pushed open the doors to the hall. What awaited him within was all wrong.  
  
Alexius sat, proud and confident on the throne, Felix behind him, whole and hale. And at their feet knelt Dorian, bruised and bloody, his wrists and feet chained.  
  
“Dorian!” Revan burst into the room, careless of his own safety.  
  
The mage lifted his head, his jaw dropped open and his eyes wide in stunned disbelief. The crackling streaks of red energy radiated from the Altus, tinting his eyes an unnatural, glowing crimson. “Amatus?”  
  
Alexius laughed. “Oh, Dorian,” he sneered. “You always were painfully idealistic.” The Magister grinned at Revan. “Now that the Inquisitor has finally arrived, I can snuff out the last of your pitiful hope.”  
  
“I think not,” Leliana purred. She had maneuvered around behind the throne,forgotten in the ruckus of the Inquisitor’s entrance, and slammed an arrow into Alexius’ neck.  
  
“Father!” Felix cried, catching the man as he collapsed, gurgling and choking on his own blood.  
  
Leliana did not wait, did not pause to watch her vengeance unfold before them. She was swift and terrifying, Andraste’s own avenging angel and Andruil’s arrow. She reached down, took a fistful of Dorian’s hair, and hauled him to his feet.  
  
“Leliana, no!” Revan stared, fear immobilizing as surely as if he’d been hexed.  
  
“You lied,” the Nightingale snarled. Her knife glinted in the red light as she pressed it to Dorian’s throat. ”You said he was dead!”  
  
Meanwhile the mage’s scarlet eyes never left his lover’s face. “I thought he was,” Dorian said. “I believed he was.” His voice broke. “Such a fool was I to doubt him.”  
  
“Leliana, please.” Revan couldn’t look away from Dorian, couldn’t take a single step closer to them.  
  
“It’s all right, Amatus,” Dorian said. His voice and face were serene, despite the pain the red lyrium and the Nightingale’s blade must have caused him. “I never imagined I would see you again…”  
  
Revan didn’t want to see the shimmer of Dorian’s eyes as they welled with tears, or the gentle trickle of blood down his throat after he swallowed thickly against Leliana’s knife. But he couldn’t look away. “Dorian, I-”  
  
Lady Nightingale didn’t give him a chance to say more. She swept her blade across Dorian’s throat, crimson blood spraying across the hall to splatter on Revan’s boots.  
  
“NO!”  
  
Revan leapt forward, reaching for Leliana with his left hand, but suddenly it wasn’t there. And neither was she. Revan blinked at the startling dark that surrounded him, his momentum carrying him forward. He tried to catch himself, but his amputated arm only flailed uselessly.  
  
With a surprised cry he fell to the floor in an awkward heap. He struggled against the ropes that tied him, threatened to strangle him, and in his panic he could only see Dorian bleeding out, his red eyes forever focused on his lover’s face, never to see it again.  
  
“Revan?”  
  
He sobbed, still kicking and shoving against his restraints.  
  
“Amatus,” the impossible voice continued. It hushed him, promised him he was all right, that it was just a nightmare.   
  
Revan jolted at the familiar touch, first frightened and then soothed. He blinked up to see Dorian kneeling above him, helping him disentangle from the sheets he’d dragged off their bed. The elf panted, absorbing the details of the moment, in case it was yet another cruel dream.   
  
Moonlight played with the shadows in the room, casting Dorian’s face in intriguing shades of gray, pale blue, and deepest black. The mage’s eyes were his natural gray once more. A strong breeze wafted through the open balcony, and its warmth and salt scent confused him. He noticed then that they were both shirtless, and though they were both naturally darker skinned, they were tanned deeper than usual.  
  
Qarinus. They were in Qarinus, in Dorian’s family home. They had arrived a few weeks ago, only leaving Orlais once the Inquisitor was deemed healthy enough for the long weeks of travel. Well, former Inquisitor. He had disbanded the Inquisition and come to Tevinter with Dorian, despite the mage’s protests.  
  
Dorian gave him a small smile as the elf’s eyes finally focused on his. “There you are,” he murmured. He helped Revan off the floor, flinging the sheets carelessly back to the bed. He guided the elf to sit on the mattress, and then settled down beside him. “Shall we discuss it now, or over breakfast?”  
  
He sighed, the fear and adrenaline abandoning him, and leaving him even more exhausted than when they’d come to bed. He trembled and hid his face behind his hands. He groaned when only one hand covered his eyes. Dorian didn’t say anything, but he rubbed Revan’s thigh and propped his chin on the elf’s shoulder.  
  
The elf stood suddenly, and paced before the bed. Where there had been fear and despair only a moment ago, Revan was now filled with fury. He cast about the room, settling to take his anger out on the bedside table. With his right arm he swept the candelabra, carafe of water, and a delicately stemmed wineglass, still tinged red from the glass he’d had before bed, off the table to shatter and clatter onto the stone floor.  
  
Dorian huffed from behind him. “That was one of my favorite wineglasses.”  
  
Revan glared at him, but his lover didn’t waver.  
  
“Glare all you want,” he said. “Truly. Or shout, laugh, cry, whatever best suits the moment.”  
  
Revan’ilan took several deep breaths, and when he looked upon Dorian again, his vhenan’s eyes were soft.  
  
“You heard the healers,” he said. “Losing a limb is more than just a physical injury.” Dorian stood and slowly stepped into Revan’s space. When the elf didn’t shy away, he wrapped his arms around his thin waist. “This will take time, Amatus.”  
  
Revan nodded and let his head droop to rest on Dorian’s shoulder.  
  
“Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?” Dorian asked after a long moment.  
  
Revan sighed. “I was back in Redcliffe castle, but you weren’t with me. Alexius had captured you, infected you with red lyrium…” Dorian tried to pull him back to look at his face, but Revan tightened his arm around the mage’s shoulder. He took a deep breath. “And then Leliana killed you.”  
  
Dorian stilled, but remained silent. After a moment, he grunted. “She never did like me.”  
  
The elf let out a little huff of surprised laughter, and stepped back to look at his lover’s face. “Probably jealous of your shoes,” he said. It was a weak joke, but it was the first he’d made in almost a month.  
  
Dorian laughed, entirely too loud; it wasn’t that funny. “Shall we return to bed, then?”  
  
Revan eyed the over-sized mattress warily. Dorian’s warm hand on his neck pulled him back to look at the mage.  
  
“I’m right here, Amatus,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
The elf’s golden eyes searched gray ones, and finally felt the tension in his shoulders and chest lessen some. He nodded, and followed after Dorian to climb back into their bed. A quick battle with the sheets found them cuddled and cozy, the salt breeze of the sea drifting over them.  
  
As Revan floated somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Dorian murmured comforting words and promises to him, half in Tevene and half in common. He didn’t understand most of it, but he didn’t need to. Dorian’s actions were rarely louder than his words, but they were always more important.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve the mage’s patience and devotion, but he knew that Dorian would see him through this, and that they would be stronger for it.  
  
Revan sighed. “Ar lath ma, Dorian.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words, and Dorian knew their meaning, but it was the first time he’d said them since he’d lost his arm.  
  
Dorian stilled behind him, his hand clutching at Revan’s hip for a moment. Then he hummed, relaxing into his Amatus’ back. “And I you, Revan’ilan.”


	4. Happy Satinalia!

Adriel tried not to let her nerves show as they neared Honnleath. Clan Lavellan had never celebrated Satinalia, and though there’d been celebrations at Skyhold, she had never participated in them. Meeting her in-laws for the first time at what she considered a human holiday celebration was more nerve-wracking than facing a Hivernal, but she wouldn’t let Cullen know that.  
  
He rode beside her, his smile growing with every mile they rode closer to his home. He pointed out little landmarks from his childhood, memories attached to the rocks and trees, the sound of the lake water lapping against the shore. This was a side of him she so rarely got to witness, and when he took her hand in his she couldn’t help but be put at ease.  
  
Until the village revealed itself.  
  
It was quaint. Smoke billowed from the chimneys of every little house, all the trees were bright shades of yellow, orange, and red, and the distinct smell of fruit pies filled the air. Her stomach growled, and she blushed.   
  
Cullen turned to her, a golden brow arched. “Hungry already?”  
  
She shrugged. “I don’t need to be hungry to want pie,” she said with a smirk. Of course, she was hungry, but that was yet another thing she was determined not to let Cullen know. At least, not yet. Luckily, a child’s screeching distracted them from the current conversation.  
  
A small blond boy bolted from one of the houses, followed by a girl only a couple years older than him. “Uncle Cullen!” They wailed as they sprinted to them.  
  
Cullen laughed, and it was somehow different than all the other chuckles and chortles she’d ever heard from him. Freer somehow, happier. She watched him clamber down from his giant Ferelden Strider, and scoop up the children, one in each arm. He spun them, the children’s giggles bringing a delicate smile to her own face, and then set them back down.   
  
He crouched before them. “Go on and let your mum know we’ve arrived.”  
  
The little boy made a fist and placed it over his heart as he bowed in perfect imitation of an Inquisition scout. “Yes, sir!” He then spun away and hurried to follow his commander’s orders. The girl giggled, and then hurried after her brother.  
  
Cullen turned to her, beaming with pride, but his smile faltered slightly when he met her soft green eyes. He placed a gloved hand on her thigh. “They’re going to love you,” he promised her.   
  
She nodded, but a sudden wave of nervous nausea kept her from speaking. She let him help her down from her piebald Dalish, which she thought was ridiculous. Blackwall and Harritt had worked hard to make her a prosthetic that would help make up for the loss of her left arm; she was perfectly capable of dismounting her own horse. But, Cullen insisted on helping her.  
  
She thought it was ridiculous, and she loved it.  
  
The horses followed them into the stables, and they made sure to remove the tack and feed the mounts before they wandered back to the house. They paused before the door and Cullen took both of her hands, such as they were, in his.  
  
“Mia is going to hug you and fawn over you, probably while condemning me in the same breath,” he warned her. “The kids will ask you a thousand questions about life with your clan, Rosalie will try to get a rise out of us both by asking inappropriate questions that Mia will yell at her for, and my younger brother, Branson, will want to know every last detail from your most famous battles with the Inquisition.” He blushed. “If any of it becomes too much, let me know, and I swear we’ll leave the house for a bit. All right?”  
  
She took a deep breath. She was so nervous, so stupidly nervous. She was the Inquisitor, savior of Thedas. She should not be afraid of her husband’s family, and yet she felt like she was entering a lion’s den. Cullen dropped her hands and cupped her face.  
  
“Adriel,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do this.”  
  
She smiled at him, ignoring the moisture in her eyes. He did so much for her, she would do this for him. One more deep breath and then she nodded. “All right, let’s do this.”  
  
  
  


The door opened and Mia was certain she would have a heart attack. The pies weren’t finished, the table still wasn’t set, despite demanding her children do so, there were dirty dishes piled in the wash basin, and she didn’t even want to think about what she must look like. Was the whole kitchen boiling? Or was that just the potatoes? Had she sweat in the apple pie? She had to admit it was likely. Perhaps she would suggest the Inquisitor have the pumpkin instead.  
  
There was an excited squeal from her children in the next room, which reminded Mia that her brother had finally arrived. She dried her hands on her apron, noticed that it was streaked with cooking grease and pie filling, and clamped down on a scream of frustration. She tore the apron off, chucking it on the counter, and then patted her hair to be sure her curly blond mane wasn’t too frizzy. She could hardly control it on a calm day, let alone one as momentous and stressful as meeting her sister-in-law for the first time.  
  
She fanned herself, praying to the Maker that she wouldn’t look too flushed, and then hurried out of the kitchen to greet her little brother. She stopped in the doorway to stare at him. The last time she’d seen Cullen had been just after the Breach had been sealed for good. He’d looked haggard, worn down by the year of struggling to command the forces of the Inquisition. The only time he lit up at all was when he spoke of the Inquisitor.  
  
But now, Cullen looked strong and healthy, with color in his cheeks and a bright shine to his warm brown eyes. But, above all else, he looked happy. He picked up his nephew and spun him, the two of them laughing as her daughter clapped and cheered. And behind them, tucked against the wall with a fragile smile on her lips, was an elven woman.  
  
Mia stared at her for a second, trying to reconcile the woman before her with how Cullen had described her. He’d spoken of her beauty with reverence, his voice strong and awed like when he recited the Chant. But the woman before her seemed almost exceedingly plain. She was thin, her oval face framed by a pointed chin and thin dark brows over wide green eyes. Chestnut freckles dotted her face, especially over her sharp nose, and matched her hair which swept over one shoulder carelessly. Delicate, pale green tattoos swept under her eyes, branching out toward her temples.  
  
Adriel Lavellan looked fragile, but then Cullen laughed and something shifted on the woman’s face. As the sound of her husband’s laughter washed over her she smiled, and Mia realized she had a full, pleasant mouth. Green eyes that had seconds ago seemed reserved and guarded were suddenly bright with pride and adoration. If that was how she looked at Cullen, then Mia understood how he found the woman so bewitching.  
  
With her hands on her hips she frowned at her brother. “You’re early. You’re never early!”  
  
Cullen set her son down and turned his grin upon her. “There’s a first time for everything,” he said. “Plus, Addy keeps me on schedule.” He gestured behind him, and offered his hand to the elf.  
  
The inquisitor stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Andar’an atish’an,” she said. The foreign words flowed off her tongue like music, and Mia blinked in awe at her smooth and gentle voice. “Thank you for opening your home to me,” Adriel continued.  
  
Mia stammered, caught Cullen’s smug smile, and then rolled her eyes. “Maker’s Breath,” she cursed and marched up to the woman. “You might be the Inquisitor out there, or The Herald of Andraste to all of Thedas. But in this house, you’re Adriel Lavellan Rutherford.” She took a deep breath and then pulled her sister into a hug. “In here, you’re family.”  
  
The woman was stiff and unsure at first, but Mia held her until the thin shoulders relaxed and long arms wrapped around her shoulders. When they finally broke apart, Adriel wiped at her eyes and ducked her head, sniffling.   
  
“Thank you,” she whispered.   
  
Mia glanced at her brother, worried that she’d overstepped some unknown boundary, but he shook his head once and stepped between them. He rubbed Adriel’s upper arms and bent his head down to whisper at her ear. She nodded as he spoke, and took a steadying breath before meeting Mia’s eyes.  
  
“It smells wonderful in here,” the Inquisitor said. Her voice was shaky, but warm, and her eyes were clear and open. “I don’t know much about Satinalia traditions.” The elf blushed, her pale cheeks flaring bright red. “But can I help you with anything?”  
  
Mia smiled and waved her off. “It’s all under control,” she lied. “Rosalie and Branson aren’t here yet, so you’ve got time to get yourselves unpacked and comfortable. Cullen, you know the way.”  
  
He nodded that he did, and looked at his wife with a bolstering smile. She returned it, and Mia knew that any awkwardness between the Inquisitor and the Rutherfords would be firmly ironed out before her visit was through.  
  
  
  


After they dropped their bags off in his room upstairs, Cullen took Adriel’s hand and led her from the house. Once free of the building, with the crisp fall air prickling their skin, his wife seemed to relax a bit more. She followed him up a relatively steep hill, though he kept pausing to make sure she had stable footing.  
  
“Where are we going?” She asked, wild joy and the climb stealing her breath.  
  
“My favorite place in Honnleath,” he said. He wanted to gush about the spot, but he knew he’d just botch it. He was never very good at putting his feelings into words, but he could always count on Adriel to understand the importance of whatever he shared with her. He knew she’d understand this at once.  
  
They crested the hill, and at the top stood a tall oak tree that had been there as long as any of the Rutherfords could remember. In fact, no one in the village could recall a time when the tree hadn’t been there. Adriel gasped as she joined him, her eyes wide as she took in the vast branches with the yellow and orange leaves that swayed in the fall breeze. She spun to take in the view from their newfound height, but Cullen couldn’t look away from her.  
  
“Come,” he said, and held out a hand for hers. She took it and followed him to sit at the base of the tree. The view was no less breathtaking for the change in vantage point. They sat in silence, enjoying the peace and quiet, and eventually Adriel rested her head on his shoulder.  
  
“Cullen?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I know Satinalia is a gift giving holiday,” she said. “And I did get you a present,” she stammered. “It’s back in our room.”  
  
He tilted his head to cast and eye down on her, but she kept her eyes down on where her hands fiddled in her lap. He ran a hand through her hair. “Addy,” he murmured. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out of sorts since we left Skyhold.”  
  
She grimaced. “Noticed that, did you?”  
  
He chuckled and continued trailing his fingers along her scalp. “Of course I noticed.” He paused, giving her a chance to tell him whatever had plagued her mind on their journey. He’d assumed she was nervous about meeting his family, but now he worried that it might be something more serious. “You can tell me anything, Adriel.”  
  
She nodded. “I know.” Another long pause, but Cullen was determined to be patient.   
  
She was always so patient with him; through his emotional tirades and depressive states as he battled lyrium withdrawal, when he stumbled and mumbled his way through his proposal, and when he sought the most direct course of action when she knew diplomacy would be best. He would learn from her, and endeavor to treat her with such unwavering faith. It was his silent vow to her.  
  
“It seems I have another present for you.” She looked up at him, uncertainty wavering in her green eyes. “Quite the unexpected one.”  
  
He stared at her, not quite sure he understood. She wasn’t saying what he thought she was… was she? “I don’t… are you saying…? I mean, you’re not…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maker’s Breath.”  
  
She giggled then, and Cullen’s entire existence seemed attached to the sound. The hill disappeared from beneath him, the tree was no longer at his back, and though his hair moved in it, he could no longer feel the chill of the wind on his skin. Her soft voice and her bright eyes were all that anchored him in a sea of white shock.  
  
“Cullen!” She called. “Breathe!” Her hand on his cheek jolted him, and the world returned in sharp and beautiful clarity. He touched her hand where it rested on his cheek, as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.  
  
“A child,” he said. “We’re having a child?”  
  
She smiled. “We are. Are you hap-”  
  
He kissed her. Every trembling emotion that warred within him poured into that kiss; love, adoration, reverence, fear, joy. Too many to list, and besides, he didn’t have words for most of them anyway. But she always understood what he tried to say, no matter how poorly he said it.   
  
When he broke the kiss she grinned up at him, any lingering doubts squelched by the force of his emotion at her news.  
  
“Happy Satinalia, Cullen.”


	5. Beware of Dog

Zevran eyed the Mabari warily. The hounds were renowned for their ferocity in battle, intelligence, and unshakable loyalty for their masters. Zevran had, of course, recently tried to kill the dog’s master, and so thought it best to treat the beast with care.   
  
The dog caught his eye and growled.  
  
Ah. As he expected, there was no fooling a dog, let alone a Mabari.   
  
“It was business,” he told the hound the next morning. He held out a piece of dried venison for the dog, but it only watched him. Zevran shrugged and ate the morsel himself. “Besides,” he said as he chewed. “She spared my life and I have now sworn an oath to her.”   
  
The ex-Templar snorted from the campfire.   
  
Zevran leveled his gaze at the Mabari. “Alistair may not trust such an oath, but you know the truth of such matters, no?”  
  
The dog tilted its head, then huffed loudly before turning away from the assassin.  
  
“You are aware you are speaking to a dog, yes?” The Chantry sister asked in her soft, lilting voice.  
  
“Not just a dog,” Zevran replied. “A Mabari.”  
  
She pursed her pouty lips. “Yes, well, I doubt he understands something so abstract as an oath.”  
  
“I think you would be surprised.” He caught the Warden watching their conversation, a pleased gleam in her golden eyes, and Zevran knew he was on the right track.  
  
When he offered a snack to the hound two weeks later, the dog approached cautiously. It sniffed his hand, then took the venison gingerly from Zevran’s fingers. It moved off to eat in peace, but Zevran knew it was only a matter of time before he befriended the beast.  
  
“I see what you’re doing,” Alistair grumbled.  
  
“Feeding the dog?” Zevran suggested.   
  
“You’re trying to win over the hound so Cerine will trust you.”  
  
Really, he wanted to win over the hound so he needn’t fear the beast in his sleep, but if the Warden trusted him sooner because of it, he wouldn’t complain. “You are quite clever, Alistair,” Zevran said, smiling. “Far cleverer than I to concoct such a scheme.”  
  
The ex-Templar glared at him. “Now you’re just mocking me.”  
  
Zevran laughed. “I promise you, I am not! For how could poor Zevran ever hope to mock someone so clever as yourself?”  
  
Alistair’s scowl deepened and from across the fire came such a feminine giggle that Zevran was certain it must belong to Leliana. But, the wide, golden eyes of the Warden looked back at him over the flames, and Zevran felt a pleasurable flush roll through him.  
  
The Mabari let out a happy bark at his mistress’ giggle, which only made the elven woman laugh even harder.  
  
Alistair stood. “You are all insufferable,” he huffed, and then stomped off toward his tent.  
  
  
  


As the weeks turned into months the Mabari ceased growling at Zevran, even when the elf approached the Warden, though the dog refused to come to Zevran if his mistress didn’t command it, unless the assassin provided a snack to entice him.  
  
So, when the hound approached him in the quiet of Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate, Zevran knew something was wrong. It was late, the estate silent except for the crackling of the flames in the hearth before him. He sipped at an expensive bottle of brandy he’d snatched from the Arl’s private collection and blinked blearily at the sound of claws on stone.  
  
The dog drew near carefully, its head down and ears back, looking as dejected as Zevran felt. Then, to his immense surprise, the dog nudge his hand with its snout and whimpered.  
  
Zevran ruffled the fur of the dog’s head. “It was a hard day on all of us,” he admitted. He knew alienages were sad places, but seeing where his Warden had grown up, helping her save her father from a life of slavery, had been more taxing than he’d anticipated.   
  
The Mabari whimpered again, ducked out from under Zevran’s hand, and took a few tentative steps away. It paused, looked back at the assassin and wriggled its stubby nub of a tail hopefully. Intrigued, Zevran pushed himself out of the leather armchair he’d been lounging across, and followed the dog, his bottle of brandy in hand.  
  
He shouldn’t have been surprised when it led him to the Warden’s door. But he was surprised by the muffled crying he could hear coming from within. The dog tilted its head from side to side, listening, and then whined.  
  
Zevran stood at the door, uncertain of how to proceed. It was true that he and Cerine had grown closer over the past months, and that he often shared her bed, but they were hardly confidants… Were they? He wanted to be, he thought. Or at least, he wasn’t sure, but he might actually care for the Warden. It was so difficult to tell when one had been taught that feelings were synonymous with a painful death.  
  
He shot a glare at the dog. “You should have fetched Leliana,” he said. “Or Alistair.”  
  
The dog growled softly, low in its throat. Apparently the Mabari disagreed.  
  
“All right, all right,” he hissed. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.  
  
There was a long pause in her crying, and then her voice called out, “who is it?”  
  
“It is your favorite Antivan, Zevran Arainai,” he said through the door, putting a grin in his voice though he couldn’t convince one to claim his face. “It seems your hound was concerned; he led me here.” When she didn’t speak he sighed and pressed his forehead to the door. “Cerine, may I enter?”  
  
The dog pawed at the door, another sad little whine comimg from it. A moment later Zevran nearly fell through the doorway as the Warden opened the chamber door.  
  
She looked a mess. Her mid-length blond hair was down for once, and he was surprised to see it was wavy, as if she’d spent a day on the coast of Antiva City. It was obvious she’d been crying from her blotchy cheeks and the wet sniffling sounds she made as she tried to pretend she was fine. When he didn’t move she gestured for him to enter the room, which he did once the dog went first. The Mabari circled a few times before settling down with a huff in front of the small fireplace. In the low, flickering firelight Zevran saw his gold earring dangling from her left ear, and his heart clenched. He hadn’t expected her to wear the trinket, and he had never expected that seeing her do so would cause such a swell of feeling within him.   
  
She perched on the foot of the bed, staring at the flames for a long time before Zevran sat beside her. He offered her the bottle of brandy, which she took and swigged from generously. She handed it back, and he took a small sip; he thought he might want his head clear for this evening.  
  
When she still didn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “Do you wish to speak of what troubles you so?”  
  
She shook her head. After another quiet moment she sagged against his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her automatically. He was wonderful with words, and yet terrible at telling her the things she made him think and feel. But tonight Cerine didn’t want words. She didn’t need words. She needed his strong arm to hold her when she threatened to fall apart. She needed his warmth when something in her soul had gone cold. She needed him.  
  
This was something he could offer. He would always be there for his Warden.


	6. Who Ya Gonna Call?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a goofy thing that I did for entirely self-indulgent reasons. It is a Ghostbusters AU. Enjoy!

Elwen Cousland slammed on the brake and cut the wheel, sending the re-purposed hearse into a skid. It collided with the curb and rocked to a stop, perfectly parked in front of the newly renovated firehouse.  
  
“Come on, guys,” she shouted through the open window. “We’re gonna lose it!”  
  
Alistair ran toward the car, his grey jumpsuit neat and pressed, zipped all the way to top so that his embroided name tag was clearly legible. Zevran followed at a lazy jog, his suit unzipped almost to his waist and his proton pack dangling off one shoulder.  
  
Alistair stowed his proton pack in the back of the hearse and moved to open the front passenger door.  
  
“Shotgun!” Zevran shouted as he chucked his pack into the back of the car.  
  
“What?” alistair glared at the elf, the door ajar. “You don’t get to just call ‘shotgun’,” Alistair stammered, his cheeks bright red with exertion and frustration.  
  
“I believe I just did,” Zevran said. He patted the larger man’s shoulder consolingly as he passed him and slid into the front seat.  
  
“Cousland!”  
  
“Just get in the car, Alistair!” Normally she’d find the men’s antics amusing, but every moment they wasted was a moment they might lose their prey.  
  
Alistair grumbled and huffed as he climbed into the backseat. Elwen didn’t wait for him to buckle his seatbelt before she punched the car into gear. Pedal to the metal, the tires screeched and the team sped off into Downtown Denerim.  
  
Halfway to the location, Cousland had a thought. “You guys brought the trap, right?”  
  
“Alistair had it.”  
  
“It’s Zevran’s turn.”  
  
“Maker’s Breath!” Cousland cursed and cut an illegal u-turn, hauling ass back to the fire station. “Do I need to bring Morrigan and Leliana next time? At least then I’d know we’d have all our equipment.”  
  
The hearse screeched back up to the curb as Morrigan sauntered out of the building swining a black and yellow striped box from a thick black cable. “Forget something, did we?” She asked, a smug smile on her pale face.  
  
Alistair snatched the trap from her through the window, and the hearse sped off again, Morrigan’s laughter following in its wake.  
  
Denerim was a big city with lots of narrow, twisting streets. Luckily, Elwen knew her way around, and after some hair-raising turns and neglected traffic laws, she parked the car at the front of the ostentatious hotel. The trio clambered out of the car and into their proton packs.  
  
“Zev,” Cousland barked. “Zip up. We’re professionals, remember?”  
  
“Of course, my dear Cousland,” the Antivan purred. He zipped up his jumpsuit, his sewn in name tag finally displayed for all to see.   
  
“What’s the plan?” Alistair asked.   
  
Cousland shrugged, then pulled her long red hair into a messy bun. She adjusted her glasses on her face and tightened the shoulder straps of her pack. “We check in with the client, then find the ghost. Zev and I will go on the offensive, you’ll be on trap duty.”  
  
“I hate trap duty,” Alistair mumbled as they stepped into the hotel.  
  
People stared as they passed, whispering at the strange appearance of the trio. Cousland smiled at anyone bold enough to make eye contact, but kept her demeanor purposeful and professional.  
  
“Ah!” A woman in a ruffled, gold and blue pantsuit approached them. “Thank you for arriving so quickly. I am Josephine Montilyet, manager of the Denerim Estates Luxury Hotel.”  
  
“Nice place you have here,” Zeveran said, eyeing the fine furnishings and collector art pieces that hung on the wall.  
  
“Thank you,” Montilyet said, inclining her head in an elegant bow.  
  
“So, uh,” Alistair interrupted. “Where’s the ghost?” several heads snapped to attention as the man’s voice echoed through the cavernous hotel lobby.  
  
Josephine took a deep breath. “This way, please.”  
  
Elwen glared at her colleague as she follow the manager; the hotel had asked for discretion. Their jumpsuits and paranormal arsenal meant they were already limited in that capacity, they didn’t need Alistair blurting out their business in front of hotel guests.  
  
“The twelfth floor has long been the home of some interestin phenomena, but it has never been so… disruptive,” Josephine explained as they took the elevator up.  
  
“Disruptive how?” Cousland asked.  
  
“The… entity has taken to passing through walls, stealing entire cart’s worth of room service, and generally weaving chaos and leaving a mess in its wake.” She sighed. “We’ve had five cancellations already this week.”  
  
Elwen grimaced and Zevran whistled.   
  
“That’s what we’re here for, Ms. Montilyet,” Cousland smiled at the manager. “Leave it to us.”  
  
The woman thanked them, then let them out onto the twelfth floor. As they stepped into the hall the temperature dropped and they noticed the thin slime that coated the walls.  
  
“Seems our little pest has been quite busy,” Zevran mused.   
  
“Sounds like a spirit of Gluttony,” Alistair said.  
  
“Gluttony is just Hunger that’s been corrupted,” Elwen said.   
  
Alistair snorted. “You’ve been reading too many of that ‘Fade Expert’s’ books.”  
  
She shrugged. “It’s an interesting perspective, and one worth exploring given our line of work.”  
  
“Perhaps we could explore our philosophical differences later, yes?” Zevran interrupted. “We have company!”  
  
The spirit manifested through a wall to pounce upon an unattended room service cart. Plates clattered and silverware clanged as the ghost gorged itself on lunch portions of pasta and stew.  
  
Elwen nodded to Zevran and the pair stalked closer to the spirit. Once in position Elwen gripped the barrel of her proton pack tighter and shouted, “Now!”  
  
Two red and blue streams erupted from their weapons, but the spirit simply phased down through the cart, escaping the blast. There was screaming from the floor below and then from around the corner.  
  
“It’s on the move,” Alistair shouted. The trio stormed down the hall, skirting the flaming wreckage of the food cart, and then barreled down the hallway. Zevran was the fastest of the three and the most adept with the proton pack, so he took point. Elwen went next and Alistair followed behind her.  
  
More shouts came from a room on their right, and then the spirit reappeared, phasing through the wall to pass through Cousland.  
  
It felt like swimming at th peaks of the Frostbacks. Elwen gasped, shocked and freezing, and then the spirit moved on, laughing as it went, leading them even further down the hall.  
  
“Are you all right?” Alistair asked.   
  
She nodded and tried not to puke as she realized she was covered in slime.  
  
Zevran cast an eye back on her. “This is not a good look for you, my dear Cousland.”  
  
Elwen rolled her eyes and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Let’s just get this ghost.”  
  
It was a long hunt that led them through hallways and room, and by the time the spirit led them down to the immaculate ballroom, they were all covered in slime. A chorus of surprised shouts and screams came from the other side of the ballroom doors.  
  
“Sounds like we’re crashing the party,” Cousland said. “Be careful of innocent bystanders.” She eyed Zevran, who nodded, and the she kicked open the door.  
  
Of course it was a wedding reception. A dark skinned elf with silver hair and golden eyes stood at the center of the room, arm-in-arm with a man whose magnificent mustache was waxed to perfection. The spirit ghosted from table to table, snatching food from the flatware and stuffing its face.  
  
The elf blinked at the chaos, but the mustached man met Cousland’s eye. “Ah, good! You’re here. Now, kindly get this spirit out of my wedding!”  
  
Zevran laughed and jumped into action, the motion pulling Cousland with him. Wedding guests fled from the insatiable spirit, many running for the door while others cowered under buffet tables. Either was fine with Cousland; this was going to get messy.   
  
She and Zevran dodged and weaved through the tables, some of which had been overturned in guests’ haste to flee. Finally, they caught up to the ghost as a particularly tantalizing morsel of cake caught its attention. Zevran, always the one with a flair for the dramatic, jumped up onto a table as Cousland shouted for him to fire his proton pack.  
  
Again, the twin red and blue streams burst from their weapons, but this time the spirit was caught in them both. It railed and rioted, but their aim was solid this time; it couldn’t get away.  
  
“Alistair!” Cousland shouted.  
  
“Got it! I’ve got it!” The man bounded over a tipped table, and released the trap.  
  
The spirit was drawn into the box as if by a gravitational pull. Morrgan had explained the magic behind it once, but it was all above Cousland’s head. Once the spirit was completely entrapped in the box, Alistair slammed the lid shut, activating the wards and seals that lined lid and sides.  
  
Panting, the trio looked around at each other, all of them grinning. The wedding however, was ruined. But, to Cousland’s surprise, the grooms didn’t seem upset at having their wedding literally crashed.  
  
“That was incredible!” The elf said. “It’ll be the talk of the summer!”  
  
“Truly,” the mustachioed man said. “Wedding of the year, if I’m not mistaken.”  
  
The elf laughed. “Creators, forbid that!”  
  
They looked at the trio, who blinked at them, flummoxed by their unexpected reaction. “You’ve not only saved us from an insatiable gluttony spirit, but you’ve just ensured our nuptials will be all anyone can talk about for months.” The man smirked, his mustache tilting gleefully. “Who are you?”  
  
Alistair stammered, while Zevran deferred to Cousland.  
  
“Us?” She asked, pride swelling in her chest. “Well, we’re the Fadehunters.”


	7. The Weakness

Riallan stepped into Madam de Fer’s parlor and put on her brightest smile. She had avoided social gatherings ever since she’d disbanded the Inquisition; it felt wrong to mingle with the most powerful people in Thedas when she had relinquished so much of her own strength. Most believed her departure from society was due to her amputated arm, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  
  
Lavellan was incredibly proud of her fully articulated prosthetic. Made of silverite and obsidian, it gleamed in the flickering firelight of the parlor, the embedded runes glowing with soft, pulsing light as her magic ebbed and flowed through them. Dorian and Dagna had worked tirelessly to create an attachment that would feel less like a replacement and more like an enhancement. She’d struggled to channel her magic through the complex prosthesis, but with constant practice she had grown stronger and much more controlled.  
  
Her presence was immediately noticed. With her pointed ears and glowing prosthetic, the black and silver dragon mask on her face had little purpose, but Vivienne had insisted. The only reason Riallan had agreed to attend the All Soul’s Day fête was because Dorian had promised to be her date. She could never pass up an opportunity to see her best friend.  
  
The whispers were constant as she glided through the crowd, Orlesian nobility gossiping and theorizing about her sudden appearance. It rankled, but she kept the frustration off her face. She had learned well under her Advisors’ tutelage; she would beat them all at their own game if they forced her hand.  
  
“My Lady Lavellan,” a masculine voice greeted her from behind, accented and painfully posh. A hand found the small of her back. “You look absolutely ravishing!”  
  
She smirked at the man now walking beside her, guiding her to the punch bowl. It was the most emotion she dare show in their current setting.  
  
“Magister Pavus,” she greeted. “You look quite marvelous yourself.”  
  
And he did, as was to be expected. Several gold hoops dangled from his ears, matching the shimmering chains that draped around his neck. His hair had grown longer, as was the current style in Tevinter, and he had the top half pulled up into a bun. His tunic was fitted through the shoulder and waist, with matching pants, all black with gold trim. His mask matched his clothes, the dragon to match her own.  
  
He looked the part of a reviled Tevinter Magister, which Riallan was confident was the point. And, as planned, their outfits complemented one another, her gown black with silver trim. Let the Orlesians gossip about her relationship with Dorian, she’d prefer that to the whispers about her arm or the peculiar absence of a certainbald elf that used to accompany her.  
  
Dorian poured her a glass of red wine. “How are things?” He asked, and poured himself a glass.   
  
Riallen rolled her eyes. Dorian knew very well how things were; they spoke at least weekly via their sending crystals. But, this was his way of checking on her, he was always so worried about her.  
  
“Fine,” she said. “Quiet.” Meaning there had been no sign of Fen’Harel or his agents. Disbanding the Inquisition had been a risky decision, but she was convinced it was the right one. It might hobble her intelligence efforts, but it hobbled the Dread Wolf too.  
  
Dorian hummed as he laced his arm through her replacement one. “No communications from the ex then?”  
  
She laughed. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away from me.”  
  
“And me,” the magister growled. He guided her through the hall and toward the ballroom, their stride leisurely as they let the gathered attendees witness them together.  
  
She smiled at him, indulging his protective side. She didn’t get to see it too often, as he usually shrugged through his emotions and onto lighter topics. “And how is Minrathous?”  
  
He sighed. “Tiresome. I am so glad you invited me to come with you, I needed a vacation.”  
  
“Vivienne suggested it, actually.”  
  
He gaped at her, and she shut his mouth gently.  
  
“She knew I wouldn’t come otherwise.”  
  
“Ah, our dear Vivienne always was a manipulative one.”  
  
“At least she’s forthcoming about it,” Riallan murmured.  
  
Dorian glanced at her, worry in his gray eyes. “I’m sorry, Ria. I didn’t mean to-”  
  
“Hush,” she said. “It’s my own fault my thoughts are so easily dragged to him.” She paused, causing Dorian to stop with her, and grinned. “Now, how about we give the Orlesians something to talk about?”  
  
Dorian smirked. “What did you have in mind? I hope it’s something wonderfully salacious.”  
  
“A dance or three with my favorite magister ought to do the trick.”  
  
He groaned. “You are lucky I love you,” he complained, but led her to the dance floor.  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
  
  


Several dances and a few glasses of wine later, Riallan stood near the dessert table, trying not to laugh out loud as Dorian was asked to dance by yet another brave Orlesian lady. Her attention to him had caught the eye of those present, and the gentry was fascinated. They could not learn his secrets soon enough.  
  
“Inquisitor,” a voice greeted from her elbow. She turned to see an elf, his head bowed and unmasked. A servant then. “My Lord requests the honor of a dance.”  
  
She’d had a few such requests this evening, but she’d made her feelings known early on by refusing them all. “Tell your lord that I am honored by his request, but that I find I am quite out of practice. My earlier dances have tired me so. Perhaps next time?”  
  
The elf did not look up at her, but he nodded. “Of course my Lady. However, my Lord did fear your response would be such, and requested that, in such a case, I tell you that he finds your taste in frilly cakes quite impeccable.”  
  
Riallan froze, staring at the elf before her. Then her eyes darted around the room, searching for those ocean eyes she knew would be watching her. She caught them for a moment, behind a silver wolf mask, and then he ducked from her sight to meld with the crowd.  
  
“Tell your Lord that I accept his request,” she said, the words pouring from her.  
  
The elf nodded. “At once, my Lady. He will be most pleased.” And then the servant, and most likely agent of Fen’Harel, moved off to find his master.   
  
She didn’t move, afraid that if she did she would somehow spoil everything, she would break the spell and he would vanish from the chateau before she could see him or hear his voice again. It had been so long, and yet she craved his nearness, his smell just as surely as she ever had.  
  
“My dear,” Dorian said upon his return. “Are you all right? I know it’s Funalis, but you look as if you’ve seen the dead.”  
  
She didn’t look at him, didn’t turn to face him, and her words were hushed. “He’s here.”  
  
Dorian stiffened, and then remembered himself. He brought his wine glass to his lips. “You’re quite certain?” He asked, and then took a sip.  
  
“Yes, he just asked me to dance.”  
  
Dorian nearly spat out his wine. He swallowed and spluttered for a moment. “He’s getting bold.”  
  
She nodded. “It’s troublesome.” The song ended, and the couples left the floor to make way for the next dancers. “I’ll see what I can learn.” She made to step onto the floor, but Dorian’s hand on her right shoulder gave her pause.  
  
“Be careful, Riallan. You don’t think straight when it comes to him.”  
  
She nodded once because she knew he was right, and yet she didn’t know what she could possibly do about it. She stepped out onto the floor, somewhat embarrassed since she didn’t have a partner to lead her. Whispers filled the ballroom at once, and then a gasp as an elf glided to her side, his arm lacing through hers.  
  
“Inquisitor,” he said. His voice poured over her, honey on the comb, and she was home. “You look splendid, this evening.”  
  
She was dreaming. She had to be. He had finally come to her in the Fade, and he was indulging her. “Solas,” she breathed. She spun to face him, the steps of the dance simple and automatic for her, though she couldn’t help the small gasp that left her lips as his hand on her lower back pulled her tighter against him. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”  
  
His blue eyes darkened, sadness, maybe even guilt tinging them. “Not a dream, Riallan.”  
  
“Then you’re a fool.”  
  
He tilted his head, and she finally noticed the mid-length hair he had pulled back, similar to Dorian’s, but a lighter chestnut color. She longed to touch it, to feel the strands twined through her fingers, but kept them placed on his shoulder and arm through sheer force of will.  
  
“It would not be the first time I proved myself as such,” he said.  
  
“Why take the risk, here of all places?” She followed his lead, deliberately keeping memories of Halamshiral from running away with her.  
  
He looked away from her, his mouth opening and closing as he decided on what to say. “You have become a difficult woman to find,” he said, smirking.  
  
“Isn’t that the game we’re playing? Wolf hunting the Halla?”  
  
He held her gaze, his eyes twinkling. “If you think I believe you to be a Halla, then you are the fool.” He fingered the edge of her mask, the pad of his fingertip brushing her cheek. The touch was electrifying, as she was sure he intended it to be. But when he pulled away, he looked almost pained.  
  
She understood. “You’ve come to warn me.”  
  
He watched her, his lips pulling down ever so slightly at the corners, but he didn’t speak.  
  
“To say goodbye, one last time.”  
  
He closed his eyes then, though he never lost his rhythm nor faltered as he guided her along.  
  
“Why?” She demanded. “Why bother?”  
  
He sighed. “Because I needed to see you.”  
  
The confession rocked her, and she nearly stepped on his foot. He swept her along, covering her stumble flawlessly.  
  
“I have tried to be better, to do better, but when it comes to you I find I am incredibly weak.”  
  
She followed him, watching him as he spun them along with the song, his footwork perfect and his posture pure elegance and strength. “Let me help you,” she whispered. “Please. If you only let me in, we might find another way.”  
  
He looked at her, considering her. “I fear it is much too late for that.”  
  
She frowned at him, and though she tried, her anger flared. “And whose fault is that?” the runes on her prosthesis glowed brighter, her magic roiling in her fury. She breathed deeply, and forced the energy back.  
  
“Mine,” he whispered. “The fault is always mine.”  
  
“Aren’t you tired of that? Aren’t you tired of the Dread Wolf always taking the fall?”  
  
He closed his eyes against her words, and she knew she’d struck home.   
  
“You say you want to do better, to be better, but you never will if you don’t try to change.” She glared at him, her green eyes refusing to let him look away from her. “Pride was your downfall, it was the killing blow for Arlathan and the world you loved.” She blinked against the tears welling in her eyes. “Please, do not let it consume this one too.”  
  
He spun her away from him, his grip on her enchanted arm, and then pulled her back to him. She pressed into his chest, and quite unexpectedly looked up and kissed him. She heard the shocked gasps and intense chatter, but she didn’t care. And apparently neither did he, because Solas held her to him, and kissed her with all the passion of years spent apart. It was like that moment in the Fade version of Haven, or the kiss on her balcony back in Skyhold. It was feverish and tremulous, needy and unsure.   
  
And just as soon as it started, it was over.  
  
He released her, his pink lips flushed and he stared at her as the song ended. Then, he pressed a fleeting, chaste kiss to her forehead and strode away from her.  
  
“Solas!” She called, and he froze at the edge of the dance floor, but he did not turn to her. She saw movement through the crowd, and knew Vivienne’s guards were trying to flank him. “Can it be undone?”  
  
He turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Nothing is irreversible… yet.”  
  
“Then we have time.” She held his eyes and stood up straight. “I’ll prove you wrong. I’ll save this world.”  
  
He winced at her words. “I wish you wouldn’t try.”  
  
“If you think I won’t, then who’s the fool?”  
  
Movement caught his eye, the guards drawing nearer, and with a flash of green he opened a hole in the veil and passed through, unharmed. Riallan didn’t bother trying to stop him. He’d told her enough, for now. She had time, and now she knew his weakness.  
  
It was her.


	8. Opportunistic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was a tumblr prompt that got way out of hand.

Zevran thanked the barkeep and carried the two plates of food back up the stairs and to their room. His Warden disliked eating in public these days, and though her reasons made him sad he had to admit, he was also relieved. She was much easier to watch over in the privacy of their bedroom.   
  
He knocked the toe of his boot against the door, the familiar pattern they’d agreed upon when they’d first started traveling together. It’d been more than a decade since those days, but her smile as she opened the door still took his breath away.

“Thank the Maker,” Cerine sighed as she stepped back to let him enter. “I’m starving!”

Zevran’s grin never faltered, though his heart clenched. “You are insatiable, mi amor.” She laughed at his innuendo, which was of course the point in saying it. Anything to hear her laugh for he feared his opportunities to do so were limited.

He set the plates on the modest table by the window and they sat to their meal. With careful, practiced eyes he watched his Warden. Cerine’s golden skin had paled, the ashy undertone poking holes in her reasoning that it was because they so often traveled at night. Her cheeks were thin, clinging to her high cheekbones no matter how much he fed her, and the fork trembled on its path to her mouth. That was why they took their meals in private; she didn’t want others to know that the Commander of the Grey could hardly feed herself, let alone lift her daggers against the darkspawn. 

“Zev,” she said, pulling him from his examination. “I’m fine.” Her eyes were bright and warm. They were one of the few things about her that had not changed over the years. And when she looked at him Zevran thought they were as sweet as honey.

He smiled. “You are more than fine, my dear Warden.” He lowered his voice and wagged his eyebrows suggestively. “You’re ravishing.”

Another, beautiful laugh climbed up her throat and graced his ears. How lucky he was to hear such a sound.

  
  
  
“Cerine!”

She spun to swing her dagger into the neck of the darkspawn that tried to flank her. Once the stroke would have cleaved the head from the creature, but it had been months since she was strong enough for such a thing. Her blade sank into the flesh, met the vertebrae and stopped. The Hurlock screamed and black ichor pulsed from its throat, coating her arm and spraying her face with the hot, tarlike substance. 

She tugged on her dagger, but her arm ached and her grip faltered. She could not remove the blade.

The darkspawn raised its sword, even in its death throes, and brought it down at her shoulder. Cerine lifted her right arm and parried with her second dagger. The blades resounded off one another and the vibration jolted up her arm like a thunderbolt. She cried out as she released her grip on the dagger and the Hurlock’s blade continued its arc. 

The sword sliced through her mail and stuck in the reinforced leather, biting into her forearm. The darkspawn roared at her, it’s breath hot on her face as spittle and blood flecked her cheeks. 

This was not how she planned to die, hunting down some vague lead in an ancient Warden ruin, too weak to even kill four darkspawn. But, it seemed the Maker had little concern for her plans.

There was no warning, no grunt from Zevran as he threw his boot knife, no hiss of the blade as it hurtled through the air. Only the crunch and thunk of the small knife sinking into the Hurlock’s skull just above where its ear should have been.

The darkspawn stiffened then went utterly still as it released its sword and sank to the ground. Cerine panted, bent over with her hands on her knees, before she too swayed and met with the ground.

“Amor!” Zevran rushed to her side, helping her sit up, steadying her with trembling hands of his own.

“I'm all right,” she insisted. “I just need to catch my breath.” She knew from the fear in his eyes that her lie was a bad one. She was not all right. If not for Zevran she would be dead, and the tremors that shook her body were the product of more than just adrenaline.

But he sat with her, his golden eyes watching, cataloging every detail, until the shaking in her bones stilled and her breathing calmed.

“Come,” he said and helped her stand. “You are a mess, my dear.” His smile was thin, fragile on lips that were too used to hiding how he really felt inside. 

She laughed, though it didn’t sound like much of one, and followed him out of the ruin and back to their camp. Once there Zevran wasted no time in tending to her. He lit the fire, collected water from the stream, and dug the suture kit from his pack. The water went into the kettle to boil, and he helped her out of her armor while they waited. 

Cerine hissed as she lifted her arms so that he could pull the silverite chainmail over her head, each muscle protesting the movement. Next his fingers found the buttons on her leathers and his hands were careful as he pushed the material off her shoulders. That left her in the linen tunic she often wore beneath her armor. He rolled the right sleeve up to expose the slice in her forearm. 

She closed her eyes and waited for him to see what she had hidden from him these past few weeks. The kettle whistled softly and then there was heat against her flesh as he cleaned the area surrounding the wound. The darkspawn’s blood would hide her secret for only so long, and with each tender stroke Zevran drew closer to heartbreak. 

He paused in his ministrations, the quiet resounding between them as she refused to look at him.

“Amor?” It was a whisper, the word so frail and fearful that it shivered off his tongue. 

“Please, Zevran,” she said. She opened her eyes and hated the tears that had already formed in them. “I can’t…”

His brow furrowed, his mouth settling into a hard frown in a rare expression of anger. “You can’t?” He jabbed the washcloth into the kettle, splashing in his forcefulness. “What is it ‘you can’t’? Tell me that you are weak? That you are hurting?” He swabbed at the cut in her arm, and despite his rage his touch was no less tender. His hands didn’t shake as he set the cloth aside, but his voice did when he next spoke. “That you are dying, Cerine?”

She didn’t look away when he glanced up at her. She didn’t fight the tears, but neither did she speak. Zevran held her gaze before sighing and turning his attention to suturing the wound on her arm. Neither of them said a word while he worked, and they were both so used to the task that she hardly even winced as the needle and thread twined through her skin. She tried to ignore the dark hue of her blood, the thickness of it. She tried to ignore what that meant, but that was easier said than done. 

Was she less of an elf now? More of a darkspawn? How much longer did she have before they were out of time? Before she would wake up one day and not be herself, but some monstrous ghoul? If she did find a cure for the taint, would it even work on her, advanced as she was in her Calling? How much longer could she ignore the whispers that beckoned her to the deep dark beneath her feet?

“Cerine.” Zevran’s voice was sharp to pull her from her spiraling thoughts. He had moved to clean the needle and stow the suture kit. He stoked the fire and spoke without looking at her, “you should bathe. I’ll make dinner tonight.”

She had always prepared dinner when they made camp. It reminded her of her years in the alienage, cooking for her father. It made her feel at home, but now the Calling had taken that from her too. She nodded, mute, but he still did not look away from the flames. So she stood, retrieved her soap and a fresh set of clothes, and made her way to the stream. 

  
  
  
Zevran tended to their meal with little care for the details. His mind was occupied with repeating his words over and over. _ You are dying, Cerine _ . They’d both known it, had known it since the very beginning. Cerine’s days were numbered; that was the price of being a Grey Warden. But knowing that the woman he loved would someday die, and being faced with that reality were two vastly different things.

He had not handled that conversation well. Then again, neither had she. Cerine was not the best communicator when it came to her feelings, and he was woefully poor in the department himself. He chuckled as he pulled the fish from the fire; they were quite the pair.

There was a frustrated cry and a violent splash of water down at the stream. Zevran set their meagre meal aside and hurried down to the water to find Cerine standing waist deep. Her arms wrapped around her torso, her shoulders hunched as she cried with her back to him.

He undressed quickly and silently, his armor pooling around his feet. He didn’t waste time acclimating to the frigid water, but moved into the stream steadily. She either didn’t notice his arrival or simply couldn’t stem the tide of her tears. He wrapped his arms around her and winced at how thin she felt in his arms.

“Hush, amor.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I am here.”

She shuddered, and he wondered if it was from the crying or the Calling. “I’m so sorry, Zevran.”

He pulled her tighter against his chest. “How long have you heard it?” The weight loss, her pallid complexion, the shaking, he could pin dates to all of that. But the archdemon singing in her head? If she didn’t tell him, he was clueless.

“A few weeks now.” She shook her head. “I didn’t recognize it at first, it was so easy to excuse as something else.”

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “How long?”

“It’s different for each of us,” she said. “It isn’t so bad, yet. Isn’t even constant.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I could have months, maybe even years left. If it doesn’t accelerate.”

His pulse settled somewhat at her words, but he wondered how much of what she said was the truth and how much was hope. His amor had always been optimistic for someone so grim.

“Zev,” she said. She shivered against him, and this time he knew it had nothing to do with the Calling. She took a deep breath, taking a moment to steel them both. “We need to accept the possibility that, even if we find a cure for the taint, it may not be able to save me.”

He swallowed at the lump in his throat and nodded. His face brushed against her hair, still dry and glommed with Hurlock ichor, but he didn’t care. When he didn’t speak she turned to face him.

“I’m not going to give up,” she promised. In the twilight he could just pretend that she wasn’t too thin, that her skin would bloom under the rays of tomorrow’s sun. He smiled at her and his finger traced her pointed ear to caress the single gold hoop that dangled there. 

“I did not expect you to.” He said once he knew his voice would not betray the emotion that lurked low in his throat. 

She grinned, that bright smile she reserved just for him, and he didn’t need to pretend that its force lit up his world. He bowed his head to brush his lips against hers. She returned the kiss, reassuring him that she was still Cerine, still the Warden. Still his.

He would make a point, in the coming months, maybe years, to find the smallest excuses to collect her kisses. For, like her laughter, his opportunities were now limited. And Zevran was nothing if not opportunistic.

 


	9. Cause for Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yet another tumblr prompt that ran away with me. I hope you like it!

Returning to Antiva was a mistake. Zevran knew its streets, still remembered the twists and turns of narrow cobblestone alleys. But where he’d once found comfort in the close confines of tall boarding houses he now only felt the grip of anxiety.

There were too many variables, too many possible hiding places for Crows brave enough to take the contract on his life. He knew it existed, knew that the bounty on his head was high indeed.The cost on his life had been what had convinced his Warden to go through with this brazen plan. Zevran was opposed to it, but there’d been no convincing Cerine of another path once she set foot on this one.

He pulled his black cloak tighter around his shoulders and readjusted the ornamental crow mask on his face. He fought the urge to look up, to scan the roofs for any sign of the Crows he knew waited to drop down on him from above.

_Just a few steps more,_ he chided himself.

Rain poured down on him, the splash of countless drops hammering the stones beneath his boots. Above him, there was a single parapet, atop which crouched a figure in a shadowy cloak. Zevran smiled and with all the ease and practice of decades of swordplay, he unsheathed his twin daggers, spinning them once before falling back into a defensive crouch.

“Zevran Arainai,” a deep voice called from further up the alley. “You should not have returned to Antiva.”

“I suggested as much,” Zevran shouted over the rain. “But there’s no arguing with the Warden, Claudio.”

The man stepped out of the shadows, but was wise enough to keep out of range of Zevran’s blades. Claudio Valisti had done well for himself in the years since Zevran had joined the Warden. It made sense, he was a charismatic fellow, charming in all the most useful ways, and he wasn’t half bad with a blade. After all the years of social climbing and maneuvering to earn the title of Third Talon, Zevran almost felt bad that he would have to take the man’s life.

Almost.

Claudio did not take his eyes from Zevran. “Where is the Warden?” He pouted. “I was looking forward to introducing her to my… sword.”

Zevran laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that, Claudio. She’s become quite the connoisseur of innuendos over the past decade.”

The men traded smirks. Claudio’s widened ever so slightly, just as Zevran heard the twang of a bowstring releasing.

Without thought Zevran dove forward, rolling across the cobblestones to crouch before Claudio and thrust his sword up at the man. Of course, Claudio was prepared for that and took two steps back to avoid the blade.

The Crows materialized out of the dim edges of the alley, surrounding Zevran and blocking off any obvious exits. He stood, sparing a glance for the new arrivals, but then returned his attention to the Talon.

“Where is she Zevran?” Claudio asked.

“Would you believe me if I said she went back to Ferelden?”

“No. We sighted her this morning. With you. In the market.”

“Ah. Well, then.” Zevran shrugged. “I do not know what to tell you except that the Warden is definitely not here.”

On cue, a tiny shimmer flitted through the air to sink into the eye socket of the Crow directly beside Claudio. The man did not cry out as he collapsed, did not moan and writhe on the soaked stones; he was dead the moment the throwing knife pierced his brain. Two more dropped before Claudio pulled his sword from its sheath.

There was the ripple and flap of fabric in the wind, the only announcement of his Warden’s leap from the parapet, and then she was beside him, daggers drawn. She wore the same cloak as he did along with an intimidating wolf mask. She spun her blades the same way he had, prepping for battle. In fact, in the gloom of the rainy evening they were almost identical.

Which was the point.

“Kill them!” Claudio shouted. The Crows leapt into action, eager to test their steel against that of Antiva’s most wanted rogue assassin and the legendary Commander of the Grey. Zevran remembered the thrill of the kill, that scintillating drive to prove yourself. But, he found that breathing was so much more enjoyable than fleeting moments of perceived glory.

His hands moved to parry the first Crow’s attack. The boy was too eager, extending himself fully behind the lunge. It was a simple thing to block with one blade and then slide the other into the assassin’s armpit. Zevran felt when his blade pierce the boy’s heart, the momentary pressure against his steel and then the sweet inevitability as the dagger sank a fraction further.

Yes, he remembered this well.

Behind him there was a flurry of cloaks and swords clashing, the sounds dampened by the rain. He dispatched another assassin with a flick of his wrist and spun to assess their status. Cerine was surrounded by corpses, the careful slices and stab wounds bleeding out from the bodies to mix with the tiny rivers of rainwater that flowed between cobblestones.

Cerine battled Claudio and one last Crow. The Talon bided his time, lunging in and out as his underling attempted to distract the Warden. She parried each blow, ducking and dodging when her blade couldn’t do the trick.

She was marvelous, Zevran decided. A force of nature unto herself. She danced with her daggers, always had, but she’d learned so much since they’d first met that now she was ethereal. A specter of the night cloaked in mist and rain. A skeletal wolf come to punish those that tried to kill her mate.

He could have watched her forever, but he’d prefer they both survive this encounter.

Zevran pulled the throwing knife from his boot and pitched it at the remaining Crow. It took him in the throat, spraying blood in an arc above Cerine as she crouched out of the way. Claudio was not so lucky. He took the assassin’s lifeblood across the face, forcing him to splutter and blink. Cerine took the opportunity to swing her leg in the Talon’s ankles.

By the time Claudio understood that he was on his back, both Zevran and Cerine stood above him, each with a sword pointed into his face.

“My dear, Warden,” Zevran purred. “You were splendid.”

“I’m not done yet,” she said. She gestured at Claudio with her blade. “Where shall we put his head?”

Claudio paled, his breathing coming fast and shallow. “No, please.”

Zevran smiled underneath his mask. It always felt good to take power from those who once shackled him. “Perhaps at the steps of the Royal Bank? It would send quite the message.”

“If it’s a message we’re sending, why not the palace?”

“Or,” Claudio stuttered. “I could deliver your message, personally, Commander.”

Hazel eyes flashed behind her mask. Flattery had never worked on Cerine, no matter how much Zevran had tried. That Claudio thought he could talk his way out of death had certainly decided his fate; Cerine Tabris had no patience for men who believed themselves above the fate they’d earned.

Zevran inclined his head and stepped back from Claudio, the only signal his Warden needed to cleave the Talon’s head from his shoulders.

He watched her as the rage slowly left her limbs. Her shoulders, stiff and high with fury finally fell, her daggers returned to their scabbards, and only then did she turn to look at him.

“You decide what to do with him,” she said. She stepped past him, ready to lead them through the winding alleys and back to their room at the inconspicuous tavern, but he caught her wrist and pulled her to stand before him.

Gently, careful of the steel claws at the end of his gauntlets, he raised her wolf mask and held her gaze. “We are safe, amor.”

“For now.”

He smiled, oblivious to the rain in the face of his Warden’s beauty. “For now,” he agreed. He tilted her chin and pressed his lips to hers as the memory of her dancing blades stoked a fire deep in him.

She moaned softly, pressing against him despite the armor between them. “We should celebrate,” she said.

He grinned. “Of course, my dear. What did you have in mind?”


	10. A Mabari for Your Thoughts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A tumblr prompt that turned out much bigger than it should have. As they usually do whenever they feature Cerine and Zevran. Enjoy!

His Warden was frowning.

This wasn’t unusual for the small elven woman, in fact most would say it was her default expression. But this frown was particularly grim, the frown of a woman stuck mulling through memories whose hurts no amount of contemplation would ever ease. Cerine had only ever shared a fraction of those memories with him, and they were dark indeed. The kind of memories that turned into nightmares, growing in the mind until they festered. His Warden deserved better.

She deserved to smile.

Zevran glanced around the market, but there was little in the muck and mud of Denerim’s city square to inspire good cheer. Beggar children chased each other through the street, their legs knee deep in mud, while that stubborn dwarf kept shouting about his goods straight from Orzammar. As if the whole town didn’t know that by now.

Cerine’s hound sat at her heel as his master bartered with an insufferable Orlesian woman whose perfume only mingled with the smell of the overflowing gutters into something wholly unpleasant.

Perhaps a gift? Would his Warden like a delicate vial of something fragrant? Something that might permit her to forget the hardships of their travels, if only for a moment?

Cerine’s frown deepened as she argued with the pompous woman.

No. Definitely not.

He crossed his arms and scanned the market for ideas. There was always the joys of a new weapon. Zevran loved learning the intricacies of his blades, perfecting his technique with their individual weights and balances. He eyed Cerine’s scabbards, finely polished and oiled. She cared for her daggers greatly and with pride. If she wanted new ones, she would order them from Harritt.

He sighed and the dog echoed the sentiment. Zevran looked down at the beast, eyebrow raised, but the dog had no time for the lowly assassin. The Mabari cocked his head, his ears perked as he stared intently toward the alley.

“Forty sovereigns?” Cerine shrieked. “You’re out of your mind!”

He grimaced. “Shall we investigate?” He asked the hound.

The dog glanced at his master, then stood to lead the way into the narrow alley. The sun was high, but so were the buildings in Denerim, which cloaked this particular alley in cool shadows. At first, Zevran heard nothing but Cerine’s dog’s huffs and sniffles as he pressed his nose to the ground.

The dog let out a soft bark, lifted his head, and trotted to a small alcove, his stub of a tail wagging furiously. Zevran followed the dog and felt a grin overtake his face.

Perfect.

 

Cerine dropped the coins onto the crate harder than she really needed to, but the Orlesian flinched when she did so, so it was worth it.

She snatched up her purchase and turned to Zevran. “Let’s… go?”

He was gone. And so was her dog. She searched the market, but didn’t see either of them. It wasn’t unusual for Zevran to disappear into the crowd, but it was unlike her Mabari to just wander off. They had to be together.

She was just about to head to the tavern, thinking Zevran might have gone for an ale, when she spotted the familiar blonde hair and the flash of bright teeth in a wide smile.

“Where did you go?” She asked as he jogged to her. “And where’s the dog?”

He took her hand, his smile only growing. “Come, I will show you.”

Cerine rolled her eyes. She appreciated Zevran’s spontaneity on most days, but it wasn’t even noon yet and she’d already had it to her ears with people. She wanted to get lunch, an ale, and then lock herself in their room for the foreseeable future.

But, she followed her assassin into the alley, and felt the ghost of a smile curl her lips despite her sour mood.

Her mabari sat tall and serious beside a collection of barrels tucked under some scaffolding. She was about to ask what had gotten in to the both of them when she heard the soft, mewling whimpers from within one of the tipped barrels.

Zevran knelt, reached into the barrel, and returned to her with a tiny, fluffy puppy cradled in his arms.

Cerine’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide as she took in the squirming little hound, with his muzzle and feet tipped in white, with pink nails and nose. He was perfect.

He handed her the pup, then crouched and pulled two more from the barrel, one black and the other grey. “This is all of them,” he said.

“The mother?”

He shrugged. “Not here, and from their cries, she hasn’t been in a while.”

Cerine made a very soft keening sound low in her throat and cradled the puppy closer to her chest. “Poor babies,” she cooed. “All alone in that stinky barrel, mama missing, and you’re probably hungry!”

The pup let out a tiny little yap, which the Warden’s hound echoed in his deep voice. Cerine laughed and cooed as she gently tugged the little mabari’s ears. When she looked up she found Zevran watching her with intent hazel eyes, a smirk on his mouth.

“What?” she asked defensively.

“Nothing,” he insisted, but his smirk only grew. “What shall we do with them?”

She scowled at the assassin as she considered his question. Then she smiled. “We never did get the King a coronation present.”

Zevran laughed, a full belly laugh that tilled his head back and scrunched his eyes closed. It was a beautiful sight. In that moment, in a stinking back alley of Denerim’s market with a puppy pressed against her chest and Zevran’s unabashed laughter, Cerine Tabris knew she was blessed.

Despite everything, the city couldn’t haunt her anymore. Not when she had her lover’s laughter to scare her demons away.

 


	11. Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A tumblr prompt, in which Zevran meets Cerine's family for the first time. Enjoy!

This was not how Zevran imagined meeting his Warden’s family. Granted, he hadn’t really imagined it at all, but rescuing them from the clutches of Tevinter slavers would not have been high on the list of scenarios, regardless. Thankfully, they had arrived in time to save Cyrion, Cerine’s father. Her rage had boiled hot under the surface of her skin at the sight of the old man behind bars. Zevran didn’t want to think what her reaction might have been if they’d arrived too late.

Now they sat at her father’s table, sharing a meagre meal with Cyrion and her cousins, Soris and Shianni. The siblings bickered good-naturedly, though Shianni inevitably won whatever quarrel they had. Zevran liked them. He found their dynamic amusing, and Shianni’s outspokenness reminded him of his Warden. 

He glanced at Cerine, realizing she had been very quiet over the course of the meal. She moved boiled carrots around her plate, frowning as she only half listened to Shianni’s tale of her time in some shop or another, and some brute she stood up to. It seemed stubbornness was a family trait. 

Zevran reached across the table for the carafe of water as an excuse to whisper in Cerine’s ear. “Amor, how have these carrots wronged you?”

She blinked golden eyes at him, her pale brows pulled low. “What?”

“If they have offended,” he continued, his voice light with humor. “Tell me at once so that I might make them suffer on your behalf.”

Cerine considered him for a moment, then smirked. “If I can’t exact revenge on root vegetables, I have bigger problems than whatever they could have done to wrong me.”

Her words were light, and the curve of her lips suggested good humor, but Zevran knew Cerine’s eyes. They had bored through him enough times that he understood the language of the green and gold that played in her irises. And just then, her eyes were clouded with the thunderstorms of her mind. 

“So, Zevran,” Shianni said, pulling his attention from the Warden. “Cerine refuses to tell us how you came to join her merry band.”

Cerine coughed over a mouthful of food. Zevran patted her back and winked at her.

“How lucky for me, my dear Shianni, that the Warden would save the telling so that I might regale you with the tale of how she saved my life.”

All eyes looked at him, Soris’ wide with awe, Cyrion’s crinkled with mirth, and Shianni’s narrow with suspicion. Cerine still spluttered, and Zevran poured her a fresh glass of water before beginning his story.

“In the shadows of Antiva City, whispers spoke of a contract from across the Waking Sea. None were brave enough to take it, only I was foolish enough to think I could best two Wardens in combat.” He paused, glanced at Cyrion’s glass, and lifted the pitcher. “More water, Messere Tabris?”

Cerine’s father gaped at him, then looked at his glass, cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, please.” 

Zevran poured, a soft smile on his lips. “So, I, the foolish Zevran Arainai, travelled across the sea, through the muck and mud of Ferelden, hot on the heels of the country’s last Wardens.” 

The table was silent, Shianni and Soris enraptured by his story, and Cerine’s bronze cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“But, as I travelled, word of the Warden’s accomplishments was on the tongue of every man, woman, and child. She was hard, unforgiving, a righteous fury carving a path through Ferelden. And yet the stories said she often helped, going out of her way to solve problems, find loved ones lost, and that she never failed to share what resources she had.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “But if you stood in her way?” He tisked. “She would cut you down without hesitation.”

Cyrion snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds like her mother.”

Cerine beamed at her father, and Zevran’s heart leapt in his chest. The Warden so rarely spoke of her mother, but he knew that the woman was dear in her heart. He would relish any talk of his Warden’s past.

“She comes by her fearsome reputation naturally, then,” Zevran chuckled. “Despite such daunting tales, I continued in my pursuit, determined to lay a trap for the Wardens. I waited until the moment was perfect. I’ll never forget the quiet twilight that had settled over the road. The…” he paused and leaned toward Cerine, but kept his voice loud enough for all to hear. “How do you say, the little bugs with lanterns for behinds?”

Cerine grinned as Shianni laughed. “Fireflies.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The _fireflies_ twinkled beneath the trees.” He let his gaze unfocus, pulling up the memory of the evening. He hadn’t been nervous, but calm. Resolute. Prepared to give his life to the fierce woman, though he never dreamed he would get to do so and continue living to tell the tale. “It was truly the perfect backdrop for a murder.”

Cerine snorted, the sound shockingly similar to her father’s. 

“Wait a minute,” Shianni said. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “You’re telling us that you were hired to assassinate Cerine?”

He blinked at the redhead, then dazzled her with his winningest smile. “And the former Templar, yes.”

Shianni spluttered. “What? How? What happened?”

Zevran laughed. “I failed, miserably, of course!”

Cyrion laughed then, his eyes on his daughter’s face. Cerine smiled and shook her head, neither confirming nor denying the truth of Zevran’s tale.

“The Warden bested my men and had me at her mercy. If I remember correctly, Alistair suggested she kill me.”

“It was the first time Alistair and Morrigan ever agreed on something,” she quipped.

“And the only time, I imagine.”

Shiannia gaped at them. “Wait. You mean… this is true?”

Cerine smirked and shrugged, returning her attention to her plate. 

“So, there I was, wounded, bound, and seated most uncomfortably on the cold Ferelden ground. And what should I see upon waking but a beautiful, lethal woman with her blade to my throat?” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Soris. “There are worse ways to wake up, let me assure you.”

Her cousin laughed, though it was plain that the more mild mannered relative was somewhat uncomfortable by the turn in the conversation. 

Shianni shook her head. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Cerine doesn’t forgive, and she doesn’t forget.” There was a darkness in her voice that matched the storms that swirled in his Warden’s eyes. The table was tense suddenly, all mirth wiped from the family as they all fell into memories. It had been almost a year since the Arl’s son had kidnapped Shianni and the other brides. A year since Cerine had murdered the coward. And judging by the shadows on his Warden’s face, Shianni was right; she did not forget, nor forgive.

“But perhaps she believes in second chances?” He asked, then shrugged. “I bargained for my life, swore an oath to be bound to her service for as long as she would have me.” He smiled at her and found she was gazing at him with shining eyes, clear and affectionate. She blushed as their eyes met, and she looked away.

“And that’s it?” Shianni asked. “You swore an oath and she let you live?”

He shrugged. “There were myriad threats. Dismemberment, torture, starvation, should I cross her. But what concern were such tthings when I knew I would keep my promise?”

Cyrion looked between his daughter and Zevran, his eyes soft and a small smile on his lips.

Shianni leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Bullshit.”

“Shianni,” Cyrion admonished. 

“I must say,” Soris said, “it all sounds so fantastic. Like something from one of the shem fairytales.”

Zevran grinned at him. “It sounds that way, doesn’t it? But do you know what they never mention in those stories?”

Soris shook his head as Zevran took a drink of water. 

“The distinct aroma of the freshly dead,” he said.

Cerine smirked. “It does put a damper on the mood, doesn’t it?”

Soris looked aghast between them even as Cyrion chuckled. 

“My dear Warden,” Zevran drawled, a lazy smile curving his lips. “You have never complained.”

Shianni and Cerine both burst into laughter, the sound so similar it made Zevran’s chest ache. Was this what having a family was like? Sharing stories over dinner with those who wanted to hear them most?

“I think we’re ready for another tale,” Cyrion said. “Poor Soris can’t turn a brighter shade of red than that.” Indeed, the youngest cousin’s pale face had blossomed as red as embrium in full bloom.

Zevran met the eldest Tabris’ eyes. “Messere Tabris, that sounds like a challenge.”

The table laughed again as Soris dropped his face into his hands. Cerine’s hand found his thigh as she smiled at him. Shianni teased Soris into defending himself as Cyrion stood to fetch the small cake he’d saved for their dessert. 

As he sat and enjoyed the company of his Warden’s family, for the first time Zevran was sure that he had truly missed out on such simple joys in his youth. But now he had the chance to make up for them. He placed his hand on Cerine’s where it rested on his thigh and squeezed. As long as she would have him, he knew he would be welcome at their table.


	12. Red Jenny and the Big Bad Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seanna convinces Sera to on a ride with her, despite Sera's fear of horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was a tumblr prompt, and it was completely out of my comfort zone. I've never written Sera before, but I think it turned out pretty good. I hope you like it!

“Shite!” Sera snapped. “Friggin’ big innit?”

The elf stared at the monstrosity of a horse, convinced that if the beast so much as looked at her it might decide to take a bite out of her. Its hooves were huge! Sera shuddered to imagine what its teeth looked like.

“Runa,” Seanna purred, petting the horse’s neck. “Is actually small for a Strider.” The woman stroked the muzzle of the creature, entirely too close to its mouth for Sera’s comfort. “And she’s a complete sweetheart.”

“Right,” Sera said, ignoring her own nervous chuckle. “And I’m the Empress of Orlais.”

Seanna frowned at her, her full lips pulled down into a pout that made Sera go weak in the knees. “What happened to my daring Red Jenny, who looks at risk and spits in its face?”

“Pssh, piss on risk. My own two feet do just fine.”

How did the thing even manage to keep track of all its feet? How’d it run without getting all tangled up?

To Sera’s immense discomfort, Seanna swung up onto the beast’s back, the action smooth as anything. She’d done it too many times to do it any other way. She stared at the woman, noting the way her long legs wrapped around the horse. Just like Sera’s hands cradled her bow; sure and strong and supple.

Sera very suddenly wanted to be that horse. And judging from the twinkling in Seanna’s dark eyes, she knew exactly what the elf was thinking. She leaned down and offered her hand to Sera.

“Come for a ride with me,” she said. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Sera scowled at her girlfriend then sighed. “Fine. But if I break my neck I’ll sic Bull on you!”

Seanna laughed and helped Sera up onto the horse, which at least had the decency not to move too much while she floundered around on top of it. She sniggered to herself as she thought of the last time she’d flopped around like that, and then straightened up to cling to Seanna’s back, her arms wrapped around her waist.

Huh, she thought. This bit wasn’t so bad. Pressed up against her lady love all cozy like. And then Seanna put her heels to horseflesh and Sera screamed as the beast bounded out of the stable yard and into the Hinterlands beyond.

She gulped as she watched the ground blur beneath them, swallowed up by the mare’s hungry strides. Which was probably why it was called a sodding Strider, Sera reckoned.

“Look up,” Seanna called, the wind whipping her voice back to where the elf clung to her back, like a woman lost at sea.

Sera did as she was told, and the wind tore her breath from her lungs. Her eyes watered, but through the unruly tears she saw just a little glimpse of what Seanna loved so much about riding.

It was like flying. Like leaving the world behind you, covered in dust. Barreling across the countryside, Sera finally saw the horse the way Seanna did.

It was freedom.

Struck by the impulse, a sudden, unyielding need, Sera sat up and stretched out her arms. With her eyes closed she imagined she was taking flight, the wind against her face all the encouragement her imagination needed. She whooped, and Seanna echoed the sound, urging her mount to greater speed.

When the mare bounded over a fallen log, Sera’s arms laced around Seanna waist once more. But this time, when she pressed her face against her lover’s shoulder, she couldn’t suppress her grin.

They stopped in a small clearing by the stream and shared venison jerky Seanna had in the saddlebags and the red from Sera’s wineskin. They played in the stream, screeching as they splashed each other with the frigid water, and then languished in the sun, warm and full and Sera thought she might burst. Either from happiness or wine, she wasn’t sure which.

The sun was setting as they packed up, but before Sera could climb back up on the horse, she heard the tell tale buzzing of bees.

“Quick!” She said, staring up at Seanna. “Tell me you’ve got a jar in these bags.”

Seanna gaped at her. “A jar? Why would I have a jar?”

“Silly,” Sera gasped. “To catch bees!”

Seanna’s eyes went wide and her dusky skin paled, despite their day in the sun. “Bees?”

Sera nodded, a wicked grin claiming her face. “Nothing breaks up a crowd of twits like a well lobbed jar of bees.”

Seanna blinked but shook her head. “Sorry, Doll. I don’t have any jars.”

Sera rolled her eyes, but climbed up onto the horse without complaint. She flopped around a little less this time, she noted with pride. It wasn’t so hard after all. Like jumping a wall, except you wanted to land on top instead of the other side.

As the horse master’s daughter nudged her mount back toward home, Sera laced her arms around her waist. With her head on her shoulder she hummed, a soft, satisfied sound. The wine’s fault, that.

“Remind me to show you the bees next time you’re in Skyhold,” she said.

“Sure,” Seanna said. “As long as they stay in the jars.”

Sera smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”


	13. At Any Cost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A oneshot of Solas' visiting Lavellan's dream, post-trespasser. Inspired by the new DA4 teaser!

Solas stood beside a cracked eluvian and watched himself stride through the unnatural dark of the Crossroads. There were no stars in the place between the waking world and the Fade. No moon to guide him, only the faint blue glow from the few mirrors that still functioned. 

Yet again, the Inquisitor’s attention to detail astounded him. His vhenan had always been a clever one. Cleverer than the humans gave her credit for. He would do well to remember that. 

He watched this version of himself, _ her _ version, with a swirling mixture of awe and guilt. Even in her dreams she could not forget his face, could not be free of him. As he expected, she conjured him in his casual clothes, the ones he’d worn when he was nothing more than Solas, her companion, advisor, lover. And though he stepped through the shadows of her mind, his face was serene and free of doubt. 

Would that he could feel a fraction of the surety she bestowed on him in her dreams. From her perspective he must seem incredibly confident, with his head high and his heart clear. But in the light of day Solas found his heart muddled and his shoulders weary from the burden of his choices. And he knew the worst were yet to come. 

That was why he came here, why he intruded on her sleep. It was the only time he felt at peace. When he could watch her dreams and pretend that they were reality. Moments when they shared one another like an island, when the world was not a ruin of what it once was and there was no death and destruction to carry on his conscience. 

But this dream was not so wholesome as some of the others had been. 

He heard the whimpers before his doppleganger did and his heart sank. Another nightmare. She’d had more of them in recent weeks and he wondered what challenges by day were so daunting as to seep into her dreams. But, again, his vhenan was clever. She had disbanded the Inquisition, knowing he had eyes and ears in her ranks. She would rather cripple his intelligence network than hoard her own strength. In another time, a decision like that would inspire him to recruit her to his cause.

But he could not allow that, not when he walked the Dinan’shiral. 

Solas weaved through the eluvians, following the specter of himself as it marched toward the center of the Crossroads. It was there that they found her, sitting with her back against a stone wolf as she cried into her knees. She looked so small next to the statue of Fen’Harel, fragile and so painfully mortal that his heart clenched in his chest. 

His image knelt before her. “Why do you cry, da’len?”

She looked up from her knees and blinked. “Solas?” Her wide green eyes searched over him, noting his clothing and the open warmth of his face. Her own hope faded from her eyes as she realized he was nothing more than an element of her dream. 

He hadn’t referred to her as da’len in years. How could he think of her as a child after all she’d endured? After all that he had foisted upon her shoulders?

Her Solas reached out and cupped her face in one hand. The scene sent an aching lance of longing through him, the pain as real as any he’d endured on the field of battle. That was the nature of the Fade; emotions were real in the land of dreams. 

“I miss you,” she whispered, the words pummeling him like Andruil’s arrows. Her chin quivered, but she did not permit the tears to fall. She was so strong, even in her sleep. “And I am afraid.”

The fabricated Solas tilted his head. “What is there to fear?” He glanced up at the giant statue behind her and smirked. “The Dread Wolf?”

She closed her eyes against his words, and a single tear trickled down her freckled cheek. “I fear what Fen’Harel has done,” she said. “I fear what he will do.” She took a long shuddering breath. “And I fear that I cannot save him.” 

He could not look away. He could not free himself from the torment of her expression; the hard press of her lips, the fine wrinkles that had started to appear at the corners of her eyes, or the gouge between her brows as she frowned. He had earned each of these details, each memory was his to carry as a testament to the wounds he’d caused, yet again. 

“So much fear, da’len,” the specter said. But the voice was wrong, thick and raspy, multilayered and dripping with venom he had never once felt for her. It drew his attention from his vhenan to find her nightmares manifested in his image. 

The illusion of Solas still knelt before her, still held her face in its hand, but now it wore his armor, shining gold and draped in pelts. Its eyes were red and glowing and its skin was veined in pulsing red light. Black mist swirled around the figure to coalesce into a towering shadow-wolf with six, burning red eyes. 

She tried to pull away, to flinch back from the Dread Wolf, but he held her in place with a firm grip on her jaw. She whimpered at the force of his fingers on her chin, where they’d dug into her soft flesh. 

His red lyrium corrupted self smiled at her. “And you are right to be afraid. I will restore my People, at any cost. I will burn this world to ashes if I must.”

At those words flames leapt into being throughout the Crossroads, licking up the barren trees in a mockery of autumn leaves. The eluvians flickered out, one by one, until the fire claimed them too, melting them down to little more than reflective puddles. 

His heart twisted in his chest. This was wrong, everything about this image was wrong. He didn’t want this, not fire and fury. This tainted version of their last meeting, down on bended knee, her face in his hands. But he had told her the truth the last time he’d seen her, given her as much honesty as he could afford to. And now it was his words that haunted her dreams.

The black, amorphous wolf opened its jaws and growled, the sound rumbling through the Crossroads like an earthquake. 

“This isn’t real,” she said. “You aren’t him.” She grimaced as the specter’s grip on her jaw tightened. “He’ll find another way!” She still believed in him, after all this time. Still had hope that he would find some way to preserve her world while restoring his. 

Solas circled around the pair, passing unseen behind the statue of the Dread Wolf. The glowing red eyes in the face like his never looked up from his vhenan, and yet he felt as if they followed him.

And for the first time, he thought that maybe there  _ was _ a route he had not considered. An option so abhorrent to him he had not even fathomed its existence. Perhaps there was another way, though he doubted she would like it any better.

He stepped out from behind the statue and waved a hand at the nightmarish version of himself. “Begone!”

Instantly the scene changed. The fires were gone, the sun was up, and the trees had healthy, bright green leaves. In the Fade it was a simple thing to restore the Crossroads to what they once were. There was no Dread Wolf, no red lyrium corrupted Solas to taunt her, there was only him, Fen’Harel, a cool breeze, and his vhenan.

She blinked up at him, the sunlight glinting off his armor. “Solas?”

He said nothing. It would be best if she could believe this was just another aspect of her dream. But that was just wishful thinking on his part. 

His vhenan was far too clever for that. 

So, he met her gaze and let her look upon him for a long moment. He enjoyed the opportunity to do so in kind. But, before long the awe and shock of the moment had passed and he could see the questions boiling over in her eyes.

He took one step toward her, all he could allow himself, and said, “Vhenan. I think it’s time we  _ wake up _ .”

The Crossroads vanished, replaced with the dull nothing of his closed eyelids. It’d been a long time since he’d startled awake, but the pounding of his heart in his chest was close enough. Her dream had rattled him. And inspired him. 

There might be another way. In the end, the outcome for him would be the same. He still walked the din’anshiral. He would still sacrifice everything to right his wrongs. But maybe… 

Maybe she wouldn’t have to. And that was reason enough to try. 

Solas stood from the settee, oblivious to the heat of the night, and scoured the overflowing bookshelves behind the large desk. He found the book half-buried under a stack of scrolls from his spies in Orlais, its leather cover emblazoned with the cagelike emblem of Kirkwall. 

He ran his hand over the symbol, and then settled down at his desk to read. If there was any clue where to start his search of the Deep Roads, it was within the pages of The Champion of Kirkwall. And if that search proved fruitful…

Then maybe he could save her after all.


	14. Once Upon a Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: More Solavellan because I am hopeless.

Spring in the Emerald Graves was wet and humid, with constant, lukewarm rainfall no matter the time of day. Dorian complained even more than usual, since his hair refused to maintain its careful coif in light of the weather, and even Solas had to admit he was getting rather sick of the mud squelching between his toes. 

But Riallan loved the rain. Even then, as they stopped to make camp for the night, she ran a hand through her short-cropped, black hair and grinned at him with water streaking down her face. She was soaked through, and even in her Keeper’s robes she looked thin and and frail, the wet fabric clinging to every inch of her. 

“Do keep your eyes in your skull, Solas,” Dorian teased as he knelt beside the apostate and started staking up a tent. 

Solas fought back the blush that threatened to climb up his cheeks. “Of course, Lord Pavus,” he said. “If they were anywhere else I could not lavish my gaze upon her at will.”

The magister snorted, the sound something between amusement and disgust. “Yes, well,” he said. “Do keep your ogling to yourself, then.”

Riallan was too far away to hear them over the patter of the rain on the broad, shining leaves of the forest canopy, but she chose that moment to look over at him and bite her bottom lip. 

No amount of control could keep him from blushing at _ that _ look.

Dorian caught his gaze and looked over his shoulder, only to make another sound low in his throat. This time it was most certainly disgust. 

“You two are no better than ra-” The mage stopped mid-sentence and Solas tilted his head. 

“Go on,” he said. “Say it.”

“No.” The word was little more than a growl from the magister’s lips.

“You did not intend it as derogatory.”

“It doesn’t matter how I meant it,” Dorian snapped. He hammered at the one of the stakes, driving it into the soft earth of the forest with much more force than was necessary. “I shouldn’t have even thought it.”

Solas hummed at that, unsure what other solace he could provide the magister. In his defense, the Tevinter was trying to change his beliefs about the elves. Having Riallan in your life was liable to do that; Solas would know. 

The mages worked in silence after that, other than Iron Bull’s constant boasting about the morning’s battles. Once the tents were up and the modest fire managed to stay lit with a little magical persuasion, Dorian and Iron Bull set about preparing the evening meal. 

“Solas,” Riallan called, her voice clear and vibrant over the din of the rain. “Care to take a walk with me?”

“In this weather?” Dorian squawked. 

She rolled her green eyes. “Not all of us melt at the mere mention of rain, Dorian.” She pulled off her boots, one at a time, until she could wriggle her toes in the damp grass. Then she shed the overcoat of her robes, leaving her shoulders bare to the elements. Solas tried not to let his gaze linger over the fine freckles smattered over her pale skin, but the green of her robes somehow made the red tones all the more vibrant. He wanted to touch, to remind himself that she was warm and hale, despite the constant rain. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he said. “A walk sounds lovely.” 

She held out her hand to him, and he let her help him up off the stump he’d perched upon. 

“Yes, well then,” Dorian called at their backs. “Do try to avoid being clobbered by giants. Would be most unfortunate if _ I _ had to be the one to tell Leliana the Herald of Andraste had gotten herself killed!”

Riallan raised her hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t look back at her friend. 

“He’s just jealous,” she said once they were clear of the camp.

Solas frowned. “Of what?”

She bumped her shoulder against his. “Of you.” Her tone implied he ought to have realized as much.

He thought on that for a moment, and noticed the chill when her arm pulled away from his. “I suppose I do take up much of your time of late.”

“Despite his lamentations otherwise, I imagine he’ll live.”

Solas smirked and held out a hand to catch drops of water as they fell from the canopy of the great forest. “If he doesn’t melt first.”

She took his hand and tugged him after her into a hollow in one of the monstrous trees. Inside was warm, and reeked of peet and damp, with a slight hint of the minty fragrance of elfroot, mingled with the must of mushrooms. It was the aroma of the forest, of trees and nature and wildness. In the hollow of the trunk, it was like stepping through an eluvian into their very own little world. Inside the tree there were no Venatori, no Templars, no mad Magister bent on destroying the world. No wolf in sheep’s clothing, vying to do the same. 

No. In that tree they simply were. He was nothing more than Solas, the mage who’d devoted his life to the pursuit of arcane knowledge. And she was Riallan, the Keeper that never was, intent on carving her own path through the world.

Even in the gloom of the hollow, her green eyes glowed up at him, and he realized just how close they’d pressed together. He bent his face to hers and they shared a sweet, languid kiss. For now he could pretend that time stood still within that tree, and they had all the time in the world for soft, sweet, lingering kisses.

Like they would have had in Arlathan.

“I wish this were real,” she murmured against his jaw between fluttering kisses. 

He blinked, and pulled back to look at her. “What do you mean?”

She looked just as confused as he felt. “This isn’t how it happened,” she said. “This is what I  _ wanted _ to do that day, but I was too shy.” She blushed, all the way to the tips of her ears. “I didn’t want to push you away with my neediness.” When she looked up at him, there was a sharp sadness on her face. “I shouldn’t have worried. You were going to leave anyway.”

He stared at her, and only as her words pummeled into him did he feel the cloying swirl of dense fog around them. The tree vanished, and they were left standing in the green and grey nothingness of the Fade. 

“A dream,” he whispered. “It’s a dream.”

She squinted, scrutinizing his face, and then her eyes went wide. “Solas?”

Her realization that he was not a figment of her wistful heart had ruptured the dream. It wouldn’t take long now for both of them to wake and for the moment to vanish. Of course, he could always preserve it, return them to the tree in the Emerald Graves so quickly and seamlessly that he might be able to convince her it was all a dream and nothing more. 

But he would know.

He cupped her jaw with both hands and pulled her mouth up to his for one last, indulgent, ravenous kiss. 

And when he woke, alone and aching, he still tasted her on his lips.


End file.
